


But The Story Is This...

by Jacob_FaeWyldes



Category: Final Fantasy XV, The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Cause she's not out, Hurt Noctis Lucis Caelum, Hurt Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Hurt/Comfort, Misgendering, Multi, Noctis Lucis Caelum Needs a Hug, Noctis and Gladio are Siblings, Prompto Argentum Needs a Hug, Reincarnation, Snarky Prompto Argentum, Trans Female Noctis Lucis Caelum, Trauma Changes People
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22570333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacob_FaeWyldes/pseuds/Jacob_FaeWyldes
Summary: It starts when he's a boy.Maybe it was the Marilith that started it. Perhaps he really did die that day. Or was it the pain in his father's eyes as he wastes away, or even the magic that brought him back from the brink.It might have been all of them, or none of them.But one day, she wakes up and knows.
Relationships: Clarus Amicitia & Noctis Lucis Caelum, Clarus Amicitia/Regis Lucis Caelum, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Gladiolus Amicitia & Noctis Lucis Caelum, Gladiolus Amicitia/Ignis Scientia, Noctis Lucis Caelum & Ignis Scientia, Noctis Lucis Caelum & Regis Lucis Caelum, Nyx Ulric/Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum, Past Relationship(s) - Relationship
Comments: 27
Kudos: 87





	1. Prologue: The legacy leashed in my cries

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from? ...I just ...Mmmph?  
> I have so many WIPs, and I tried to work on them, but this drabble would not leave me alone. Is this even something people are interested in...? I have a few more ideas for this verse so it might be a thing, but no promises.  
> Enjoy(?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It starts when he's a boy.  
> Maybe it was the Marilith that started it. Maybe he really did die that day. Or was it the pain in his father's eyes as he wastes away, or even the magic that brought him back from the brink.  
> It might have been all of them, or none of them.  
> But one day he wakes up and knows.

It starts when he's a boy.

Maybe it was the Marilith that started it. Perhaps he really did die that day. Or was it the pain in his father's eyes as he wastes away, or even the magic that brought him back from the brink.

It might have been all of them, or none of them.

But one day, he wakes up and _knows_.

_Knows_ that ~~she~~ he has paid ~~her~~ his price; paid in blood and tears and a chance at — everything. Given everything to them — for them.

Knows that ~~her~~ his story ~~should be~~ is done.

That ~~she~~ he's _missing something_.

But every time she tries to reach for it, ~~she~~ he's grasping at shadows and mist and a song on the wind.

So he stops.

Stops trying to glimpse the laughing little girl with _magic_ at her fingertips in the corner of his eye.

Stops humming a tune he doesn't know before his advisor can ask _what that song was?_

Stops reaching for magic when his shield tells him to _fight_.

Stops trying to _remember_.

And it hurts.

It hurts _so much._

There are days when he locks himself into his room and screams until his voice gives out and his throat aches and he tastes blood on his tongue.

When he dreams of the little girl with laughter like bells and magic in her heart. Of a man with white hair and wolf eyes, swords at his back and scarred to the bone. Of another man, this one weaving songs through the air and all the love in the world to give.

But the after is worse.

After tearing away from faint memories of chiming laughter and gold eyes vanish into the shadows and the wind no longer carries the sound of a lute. After he chokes on sobs and swallows the screams and poison on his tongue.

After he picks up the pieces, wipes away the blood, shoves down the curses and spells and wishes, and stitches himself back together.

He paints a grin to his face and wraps himself masks that feel old and new all the same and opens the door.

He opens the door and makes himself blind to the pain in his advisor's eyes and the restraint in his shield's blows as they train and the agony in his father and uncle's faces when they see the blood under his nails, the bandages on his neck and wrists, and the faint marks he ~~won't~~ can't cover.

Instead, he smiles and laughs and acts the prince because he has something to _live for_ and _lose_.

' _Yes_ ,' he smiles, and it tugs on fresh wounds, ' _so much to live for.'_

And in the back of his mind, a sorceress weeps for her lost child and two loves.

She wraps herself in magic and sweet memories and drifts in darkness as the prince smiles.

Because Noctis Lucius Caelum has something to live for.

Yennefer of Vengerberg does not.

She hasn't for a long time.


	2. Prologue: Lie still, lie silent, utter no cries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows that beyond his hair, and his words, and that bars on his wrist, he's strange.  
> He'll catch himself looking for people he's never met. Or humming tunes he's never heard. Or writing in a language he can't read.  
> He never does it around people, though.  
> He learned that the hard way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this... grew? I think I'm gonna keep writing these. I'll try to keep my updates consistent, but no promises, it might just be a chapter a month type thing.
> 
> I would like to note that this is very canon divergent because trauma is a thing, and none of these people are okay.
> 
> So...yeah...enjoy...? I guess

He knows he's different.

Knows it by the blond of his hair and the way his words turn to smoke when he's tired and by the mark (the fucking barcode) on his wrist.

No, anyone can see those.

(Except for the barcode. That one wrapped in bandages, with a bracelet pulled over it. Because he doesn't want (to be called a freak even more) to have to explain it.)

He knows that beyond his hair, and his words, and that bars on his wrist, he's strange.

He'll catch himself looking for people he doesn't know. Or humming tunes he's never heard. Or writing in a language he can't read.

He never does it around people, though.

He learned that the hard way.

The first and last time he wrote in front of his parents he tries to explain, but what he says doesn't matter.

They ignore him and shove him into therapy.

' _Fix him. He doesn't have to be perfect, just normal,'_ they say, then two days later they're off for another business trip.

Six years out, and those words still echo in his head.

He knows he's _wrong_.

 _Knows_ they're looking for a reason to ship him off, call him crazy, and wash their hands of him for good.

Nevermind what he wants.

So he hides it.

Even when all he wants to do is _scream_ for them to _notice him,_ to stop working long enough to _hear him_ , or hell, come home to remember _he's a six-damned person too!_

'-- _doesn't have to be perfect, just normal.'_

But he doesn't.

He takes all the poison and the hate and cries and hides behind a smile, takes the screams and the rage and holds them tight behind clenched teeth; takes a deep breath and _dreams._

Dreams of magic and monsters. Of a good man hated for what they are and barely tolerated for what they do. Of a powerful sorceress that weaves miracles and curses in equal measure. Of a little girl humming as she twirls in a field of flowers.

...Of laughter and music and ' _sing for us, my dear lark_ '...

They're sweet dreams -- happy dreams, and they hurt all the more for it.

But he wakes up with warmth in his chest, a smile on his lips, and wants to _create_. So he does.

Those are the good days.

Then, inevitably, something reminds him of reality, and words echo in his head.

' _\--Fix him--just normal.'_

What a fucking _joke_.

His therapist says that he's depressed. 

' _Yeah_ ,' he thinks with a sarcastic smile, and it's a bitter, twisted thing, ' _no shit._ '

In the back of his mind, a bard crafts songs for his loves and child.

He wraps himself in music and memories, light and laughter, magic, and will.

He sleeps as a young man rages at the world behind a sunny smile.

Prompto Argentum glares out at the world and dares it to _try_.

Jaskier ( ~~Julian Dandelion Lark~~ ) does not.

He waits for his wolf, his goddess, and his little lioness to come home.

They always do.


	3. Prologue: Through Silver and Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the little things at first.  
> How he feels sunshine at his back or knows another blade should be at his right, or turns to the left, and tastes lightning on his tongue.  
> Lib helps, squeezing his wrist and keeping him present in a way only he and Selena can.  
> But he still gets lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was ahead of the curve on this one! Woot!  
> So, from this point on, I will be updating on Monday. It might not be every week or even every other week, but when I do it will be on Monday... and at least once a month.  
> Those are the only criteria I am setting for this thing.  
> Enjoy!

It's the little things at first.

How he feels sunshine at his back or knows another blade should be at his right, or turns to the left, and tastes lightning on his tongue.

Lib helps, squeezing his wrist and keeping him _present_ in a way only he and Selena can.

But he still gets lost.

There are days when he feels warm hands run across his back, sees steel flash to his right, and every breath tastes like a storm.

Those days, he disappears into the jungle for and _hunts_.

The first time, he's twelve. He's gone for three days, and he comes back with hands shaking from exhaustion and electricity alike. He collapses a few feet from Lib's door and nearly gives him a heart attack.

But the faces of the elders when he presents the two dead coeurl to them are worth the lectures from Sel and Lib and stony silence from his Mom as Sirona tries to mitigate the damage to his left eye.

He'll carry the marks for the rest of his life, but the victory tastes like sunshine, steel, and lightning on his tongue.

Two weeks later, when he can finally hold his dad's kukris without his hands shaking, he goes out again. Again he comes back bloody, again Sirona bandages him, again Mom bits that he's just like his father between long periods of stony silence. He tries to look contrite, but the taste of victory is on his tongue, and if his grin is sharper than anything else, no one mentions it.

And so he lives, laughing and running through the village with Lib and Sel as impressions of something _other flashes_ across his senses. And when it all overwhelms him, when the feelings and flashes turn solid and threaten to drown him, he vanishes into the jungles. Only to stumble back, dragging a kill behind him more often than not.

After the first few excursions, Mom finally relents and teaches him out to hunt. It takes all he has not to tell her that _he already knows_.

He almost does a few times, but it feels wrong. Every time he tries, there is a voice in the back of his mind telling him to be silent. So he never does.

Never tells her how his feet go silent and his breathing _smooths_. How blades feel at home in his hands, and it always feels like they should be longer, _more substantial_. How his senses go sharp, and he _focuses._

The lie is bitter on his tongue.

But for all that it burns in the back of his throat, he can't tell them. And then, he never gets the chance.

Because when he's sixteen, Galahd burns.

Mom falls to gunfire during the first wave.

Sirona chokes on smoke during the third.

He, Libertus, and Selena survive.

And after seven days of terror and fire and death, the crownsguard finds them. They flee, under a rain of fire and bullets, they flee. He and Sel lose each other in the flood of people.

He hopes she's already on the boat, but when he gets there, only Lib greets him.

That's when he hears screaming from on the docks. He turns and sees Sel; she's helping another galahdian.

Then the bombs drop.

She doesn't make it, and all he can do is watch as the sea and storm swallows her.

Lib and two other men have to drag him kicking and screaming away from the railing.

Most make it. Too many don't.

All he can do is sit in the rigging and watch his home burn. When the fires finally fade from view, he looks to the east, toward Insomnia. He closes his eyes and makes a promise even as the memory of ash and iron choke him.

' _For you,'_ he thinks, pressing the last kukris to his forehead, ' _for you, I will live.'_

In the back of his mind, gold eyes snap open, and the white wolf wakes.

Nyx Ulric has lost his parents, his sister, and his home.

But loneliness is an old mistress.

It's time for Geralt of Riva to walk the Path again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha! Introductions are done!  
> Updates might be slower after this, but again posting with happen on Monday, at least once a month (hopefully once a week or every other week, but no promises).


	4. Noctis 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck. I was editing this chapter earlier, and it was almost done too. I was ready to post it! Then I realized it didn't work at fucking all, so I rewrote it.
> 
> Yay.
> 
> Anyway, here's a thing, enjoy.

Noctis took a deep breath as the pain finally faded. His body still felt wrong, but the discomfort was a constant these days, so he pushes it away and takes stock of the aftermath.

He's sore, and his body ached like it only did after one of his worse nights. There were still tears in his eyes, but he can't remember if they are from the pain or the dreams. His arms and neck had borne the brunt of the damage. Mostly scratches marks, but there are a few bruises that have just started to darken.

' _ Not too bad, _ ' he mused, then gave himself a shake and whipped a fresh bout of tears from his eyes. He should probably get cleaned up before Ignis knocked down the door and started to fuss.

It took a few tries, but Noctis eventually dragged himself out of the veritable cocoon of blankets he made and took a few stumbling steps into the bathroom. He flicked on the shower, and while it warmed, stripped off the soiled clothing from the night before, wrinkling his nose at the mix of blood and sweat that still clung to him.

The water stung when it hit the cuts, but it felt like heaven on his aching muscles. He stood there for a moment, head hanging low as steam flooded the room. The night's phantoms haven't faded completely, and out of the corner of his eye, Noctis can see figures dancing in the steam There are still faint echoes of a young girl's voice reverberating around his head, and it took all he had not to cry at the bell-like laugh. A rumbling deep-chested laugh joined the girl, and there's a faint sensation of a body pressed against his side and a breathless laugh brushing the back on his neck.

Noctis pressed a hand to his side and let the spike of pain drive the echos from his mind, centering him.

He stands under the spray for what felt like a lifetime, breathing as he gathered the echos up, plucking out what was him and what wasn't, and then locked them away behind his shattered walls.

Then he sets about scrubbing off the last of the blood until the water runs pink with it. He reached to scrub at his hair, but something pulled tight in his back and side. He cursed and took a moment to breathe through the pain. It takes longer than he had hoped, but it felt good to be clean again, and he stands there for a moment revealing the feeling.

But he can't stay in forever, so with a disappointed sigh, Noctis shut off the water and stepped out to dry off. Then he grabs the first aid kit from under the sink and clambers onto the counter to bandage himself.

His neck and arms are the worst, so he leaves those till last. There are a few welts along his thighs and bruises dot his shins, but some light poking reveals that nothing is broken, this time. He's managed to bite through his lip, though. Again. That explained the blood in his mouth.

His arms take the longest, and he tries not to linger on them. By the end, they hurt too much to do anything with his hair but a quick finger comb. Ignis or Gladio can do something with it later, he decided. There's a pile of fresh, clean clothes waiting for him. It takes a bit of maneuvering to pull them on without restarting the bleeding, but he manages.

Noct ran through a final check, made a note to get the kit restocked — again —, and hops off the counter. It takes a bit of maneuvering to pull on a soft t-shirt and sweats, without reopening any of the wounds or pulling anything, but he managed it. He grabs a hoodie -- one he stole from Gladio years ago -- and padded out of the room.

***

Ignis and Gladio were waiting for him. Ignis at the counter with his back to the door, kneading dough. Gladio stretched out on the sofa with a book in hand.

They're talking about something that sounds vaguely important, but Noctis ignored them both in favor of making a beeline for the teapot sitting on the counter.

He pours himself a mug, and leans against the counter, losing a pleased hum at the taste of lemon, ginger, and honey. The warmth seeped into his bones, soothing his still raw throat, and he can feel some of the smaller bruises and welts fade. Noctis hides a grin behind the mug, it's just his shield and adviser to slip a minor potion into his tea. 

"Awake yet?" Gladio laughed, it sounded forced, but Noct is too busy enjoying his tea to call him on it. So he settles for flipping him off instead. Gladio laughed again, and it sounds real this time.

Ignis turns -- probably to admonish the two of them -- but stops when he sees the bedraggled mess that is Noctis' hair. The sound he makes is like a dying cat. He made quick work of washing up then started to herding Noctis over to one of the room's ridiculously oversized chairs. He made a cursory protest, but it peters out when Ignis starts finger-combing his hair into a braid.

"Like a damn cat," Gladio said with a grin.

"Iggy has magic hands, and you know it," Noctis retorted sleepily over the rim of his mug, before taking another deep pull and leaning back into the feeling of fingers scraping over his scalp as Gladio sputtered.

"Hey—"

"Far be it for me to interrupt your attempts at early morning witty repartee," Ignis interjected as he tied off the thick braid with a flourish. "But due be so kind as to not lead Gladiolus to an early grave, I rather like him."

Noctis snorted but sat patiently as Ignis checked his bandages, and Gladio tried not to choke on his coffee.

***

Once Ignis filled his fussing quota for the moment, he carefully extracted himself from behind Noct and returned to the counter to check on the rise of his dough. Judging by the happy noise he makes, it's going well.

"So," Noct setting the empty mug on a side table and burrowing deeper into his stolen hoodie. "What's the plan today?"

"Light and subject to change depending on how you feel," Ignis mused as he worked. "For now, lunch with the king at twelve-thirty and reviewing a few reports that Monica sent in for you. Aside from that, Gladio?"

"Originally, we were going to review some forms, magic, and general conditioning," he nodded at Noct's arms. "I want those to heal up a bit before you start swinging a blade again, so we'll probably work through some stretches instead. If Iggy gives you the go-head, we might dabble in some casting."

Noctis perks up and grins, "so I can-?"

"Yes, you get to throw fireballs at me you damn pyro."

"Excuse you," Noctis said imperiously, "That's Prince Pyro to you."

***

They continue like that for a bit, throwing comments back and forth, Ignis occasionally tossing one in from the kitchen. They make plans to go out into the city, and Noctis wraps himself in warmth as Gladio and Ignis hash out the details.

It feels good, the reminder.

That he's not alone. Even when his voice is rough, and there are cuts on his cheeks, and it feels like his body doesn't fit, they still care.

Watching as Gladio hums along to music and Ignis moves around the kitchen with practiced ease, causally sealing kisses from one another, Noctis feels… Not complete, not all of his people are here, but if he can have this, if only for today? Then, he can hold against the dreams and visions that tug at the corner of his gaze even now.

He bits into a warm honey bun and tastes like home.


	5. Noctis 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a chapter! I'm so glad I finally found the voice of this thing, fuck.
> 
> Anyway, Enjoy.

"It's official. Paperwork can burn in the eternal flames of Ifrit," Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum declared with all the conviction of his station as he then popped a grape into his mouth. "Also, someone needs to check what the fuck happened to the Crownsguard. Their filing system is a fucking mess."

When there wasn't an immediate response from Regis, Noctis looked up and was greeted with a beaming smile, his father's shoulders shaking in an effort not to laugh. Noctis stared at him, aghast.

"Are you actually laughing at the very serious revelations I am having right now?" he demanded.

The King shook his head helplessly, a hand clapped over his mouth.

"I am insulted, I'm betrayed. I dedicated my life to the betterment of our people, and this is the thanks I get?" Noctis punctuated his speech with a venomous glare. It would have been quite fierce, had he not been biting back a grin of his own.

Noctis' demands were too much for the King, who's only response was to burst into a peal of deep rich laughter. Noct glared at him some more.

"May I ask what has led you to this esteemed conclusion, dear star?" The man chuckled, trying to put on a mask of composure, and failing miserably.

Noctis huffed, then held up a thick folder. "This is a report for a sequence of noise complaints in the Boardwalk district. The summary says there were five complaints and that the guard responded to all of them."

"And?"

"And two of them are missing! I've been sifting through this mess for the past fifteen minutes, and I still haven't found them! As if to make it worse, there are three other files just like it."

The humor faded from Regis' face, and he leaned forward attentively. "What?"

Noctis turned to grab the others. "All four of them are noise complaints with multiple instances; all of them say there were officers sent to investigate," he said as he flipped through the stack. "And all of them are missing files."

"Do they share anything else?" Regis asked as Noct paced over to the desk.

Noctis shook his head. "Different time frames, response officers, and areas. But-"

"-It’s too much of a coincidence," Regis finished, skimming through the report.

"Yeah."

"I'll have Cor look into it when he gets back," he said, placing the file to one side and returning to his own work. "Hopefully, it's just a case of misfiling."

Noct made a noise of agreement and went to grab another set of files, only to flinch as one of the half-healed cuts on his left arm pulled. It was a dull kind of ache, barely noticeable usually, but the surprise has him biting back a curse.

Noctis tried to play it off, but Regis had already noticed. The concern in his eyes feels like a physical weight in Noct's gut. He hated that look. It reminds him of long days in PT and listening to whispered conversations through a door. Noct took a quiet breath as the pain faded and painted on a smile.

"I'm fine," he said. "Just a few bruises."

"That doesn't make it better," Regis bit out, his eyes growing dark with worry.

"I know," Noctis said quietly, trying to mask the weariness in his voice. Last night had been one of the worst in a while, and he's so tired because of it. But like hell, he was going to say that. "Besides there's nothing for it, Ignis already gave me a potion and the go-ahead for light work."

"Oh really," Regis raised a brow. He still looked worried, but his smile was returning at least.

"Yu~p," Noctis made another grab for the files, no pain this time. "Gladio said no blade work this afternoon," He plops back onto the window seat, "but I get to throw fire at him later today, so I think it evens out."

That earned him a chuckle.

"Speaking of, where are they?" Regis asked lightly. "Normally, you'd have been dragged out to walk the city about an hour ago."

"Well," Noctis drew out the word and gave a conspiratory little smirk. "I would never stoop so low as to gossip."

"No," the King drawled, matching Noctis' nonchalance with his own. "Of course not."

"But, I saw Gladio fiddling with a box earlier."

"Oh, really?" there's a mischievous glint there.

"Uh-huh small, looked velvet, perfect size for a ring from what I could see," he shrugged. "They were talking about making a trip down to that market at the waterfront."

"I see," Regis nodded. "And you just happened to decide to spend the day working through reports so they wouldn't be pulled away by work?"

"Well--"

"And this happy coincidence has nothing to do with the betting pool that's going around?" Regis mused as he lifted one brow, incredulous.

"May~be?" Noctis looked like the picture of innocents.

"Ah," Regis nodded sagely.

A moment later, they start laughing.

***

Noct has watched Ignis and Gladio dance around each other for years. Anyone with eyes could see that they liked each other. Well, everyone except the two in question.

When they finally started dating five years ago, the Citadel had breathed a collective sigh of relief and promptly started a new betting pool.

Did Noct pay in as soon as possible? Yes. Did he start a new set of bets every so often? Also yes. Has he been ever so slightly pushing his brother to get over himself and propose to the love of his life? The world may never know.

***

The laughter died after a bit, and they got back to work. Passing reports and files back and forth. Talking about the goings-on of the Citadel, tossing out anecdotes about this lord or that lady, and laughing as they dramatically read some of the more ridiculous petitions of the nobles.

It's during one of these laughing fits — someone had the gall to ask for a match with Gladio, as if he wasn't already in a public relationship with someone — that Clarus walked into the room. The man was, for once, out of his ceremonial garb and instead, clothed in a pair of tailored black trousers, dress shoes, and a navy button-down.

He was leafing through a stack of paper but looked up at the sound of laughter. When it didn't fade, Clarus just huffed and stood there, waiting.

"Done now?" they nodded helplessly.

"Do I want to know?"

"That depends," Noctis said, fighting through the last of his giggles. "Has Gladio told you anything?"

"Told me what?"

Noct and Regis shared a conspiratory glance.

"Nothing," Regis said, innocence painted across his face. "Nothing at all."

"I hate it when you do that," Clarus sighed. He walked further into the room, brushing a hand through Noctis' hair and greeted Regis with a sweet kiss to the temple. Then he exchanged the completed pile of paperwork with a fresh one, and Regis loosed a pathetic little whine. 

"Why have you forsaken me so? Have I not complied amiably with your demands?" He said dramatically, honest to god swooning back in his chair. Noctis snorted and tried to muffle his laugh with one hand.

After a beat where Clarus didn't respond, Regis grinned, striking a pose that would not be out of place on stage for an epic romance and continued.

"Oh dearly beloved, would that I could see the light of the morn on this dark day, it would not compare to- Ow," Clarus slapped him upside the head with a folder.

"Don't even try it," the Shield said, holding the papers threateningly.

Regis wrapped his arms around his husband's waist, pulling him close as he pouted up at him. "But, I've been at this desk all day."

"I know love," the Shield sighed, leaning down to press another kiss to Regis' mouth, he all but melted into it with a pleased hum. Clarus broke it after a long moment. "Now, Masha wants those filled out by the end of the day."

Regis' face soured. "Traitors, both of you."

Noctis couldn't hold it any longer, he laughed.

***

They did eventually get back into the flow of work, after no small amount of grumbling from Regis.

Noctis returned to his place in the window, and half-listening as Regis and Clarus bantered back and forth. It was comforting, in a weird way, and Noct found himself starting to doze in the warmth of the afternoon light.

Then Gladio burst into the room, slammed the door shut, slumped against it, and started to hyperventilate.

Clarus looked up from his work, "Are you all right?"

Gladio let out a long, low, monotone scream.

"I'll take that as a maybe."

***

"You haven't asked him yet?" Noctis said, stunned as they walked to the training rooms.

"No," Gladio grumbled.

"Why!?"

"It didn't feel like the right time," He defended.

"Right time-wait," Noct stopped and turned, staring up at his older brother and Shield with narrowed eyes, then he sighed. "You were going to ask him, and then started panicking over how pretty he was, didn't you?"

"No!"

Noct looked at him again, unimpressed.

"Okay, maybe… Yeah," Gladio sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck, now I feel bad for the shit we put the old man and the King through when we were kids."

"Are you kidding?" the Prince snorts, "You and Iggy are nowhere near as bad as Dad and Pops."

"At least there's that--"

"You're worse."

"Yea-wait what!" Gladio made a grab for Noct, but the Prince just danced out of the way, laughing. "Get back here, you brat!"

Their laughter echoed down the halls as they ran.


	6. Prompto 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fucker grew again. The thing that was supposed to be this chapter is now chapter thirteen, joy.
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy

_ Submitted 11:50 pm. _

Prompto sank back into his chair, pulling his glasses from his face, and setting them on the surface of the desk as he rubbed at tired eyes. It was finally done, he could relax.

Well, he could relax until the next project.

Crows, Melos might be one of the leading experts on dead civilizations, but Ifrit could swallow the old goat whole for all he cared. It took a special kind of evil to demand a full-fledged analysis of ancient epic poetry be completed in three fucking days. To say nothing of his inability to recognize the ability of those who don't fit his world view.

Prompto shook himself — best not to go down that rabbit hole — and stood from the desk, stretching for the first time in what feels like an age. His back popped in a few places, and he winced, he really needed to take more breaks. He took a deep breath, absentmindedly closing the laptop, and turned to survey the damage.

The area is swarmed with papers. There's a fortress of books, with towers of reference texts and walls of dictionaries. A moat of miscellaneous notes extended from those walls and beyond that was a veritable sea of loose papers filled with partial translations. It had become a distressingly familiar sight over the last few weeks, and would doubtless remain one.

He really should start cleaning up, but the promise of a hot shower and soft bed is too tempting for him to pass up even if it came with a near guarantee of dreams.

Prompto sighed, running a hand over his face and through his hair. He can deal with it in the morning.

***

_ Someone was calling him. _

_ He was walking a deserted road, the sun was high in the sky, and snow layered the earth turning the dirt of the path to mud, and it took all he has not to fall. _

_ Hunger clawed at his stomach like a beast, his throat felt like a desert, and he's so tired. _

_ The voice called to him again, but it's drowned out by the pounding of his heart. _

_ His body ached, and the pain in his side was starting to fog his mind. _

_ But he kept walking. _

_ And walking. _

_ And walking. _

_ Until he stumbled. _

_ He tried to catch himself and soften the landing. It sent a lance of pain through his arm to his shoulder, and he crashed to the ground. _

_ He tried to get up, but his arms felt heavy and slow, and he fell again. There's another call, hands grasp his shoulder and roll him onto his back. _

_ He cried out and curled onto his side to shield himself. _

_ Something warm and fluid trickled down his arm and side.  _

_ Blood, he realizes distantly, as it drips down his fingers. _

_ Then someone was lifting him, pressing warm, soft hands to the sides of his face, and he could see sparks fly in the corner of his darkening vision. _

_ It felt so good, and he could almost imagine that it was knitting him back together. _

***

Prompto woke with a crick in his neck and an ache in his heart.

He couldn't remember why, but it's familiar, and he ignored it.

He has too much work to do anyway.

***

It was raining. Again.

"Fuck," Prompto wondered what he'd done to deserve this. All he wanted was to get some shots for his portfolio, was that so much to ask? The past few days had been a scramble of research and cross-referencing, and all he wanted to do was sleep and decompress. But no, just as he had gotten to the park, a storm had rolled in.

He glared up at the gray skies past the awning and thumped his head back against the wall and groaned. As if to make things worse, the rain was so bloody heavy he couldn't use it to get any good shots. 

Prompto sighed and ran one hand through his wet hair. He might as well go to the Library and work on the essay for class, at least until the storm let up.

Why did he want to go to college again? Oh right, he genuinely enjoyed the Arts program, and if he got into a good university on merit alone, it would be a fantastic 'fuck you' to his parents.

' _ If they even noticed, _ ' He thought spitefully, then shook himself, pulled up the hood of his jacket, and walked out into the rain.

***

It took him a good fifteen minutes to get to the Academic District, and another five to make his way to the Library.

The Library was a towering structure of polished stone, stained glass, and enough protective measures to make it one of the safest places in the entire city — perhaps second only to the Citadel itself. It held the collected knowledge of generations and even acting as an entry point to the portion of the catacombs open to the public. Prompto shivered at the memory of those long dark halls lit only by inlays of a luminous blue stone. The Royal family did have a penchant for the dramatics, he supposed it a given that their dead were given the same treatment.

The Library was built — like the rest of the district — in the style of Old Lucis, more specifically, the rule of the Founder King. Like it's fellows, the building is surrounded by immaculate lawns and artistic gardens with ornate statuary and flowing banners fluttering in the breeze as students and professors alike debated, studied, and walked through the winding paths.

Normally.

Today, however, the rain had driven most of them back into the buildings, and those that do walk the paths held umbrellas, wore raincoats, or bolted from awning to awning as they made their way to their destinations.

Prompto, too, abandoned his usual sedate pace to rush through the doors as he tried to escape the torrent. Not that it helped, what with him already being a fantastic approximation of a drenched cat. Nevertheless, he breathed a sigh of relief as the doors swung closed, blocking out the sound of pounding rain and the first hints of rolling thunder in the distance.

The interior of the Library is warm and dry, there was a cafe, and he could already smell the promise of freshly baked pastries as they were pulled from the ovens.

"Thank the six," Prompto muttered and wandered over to order a latte and a fresh roll of sweetbread. He took his order, walked to one of the corner tables, shed his soaked outer coat to dry by the fire, and settled down into one of the plush chairs.

He took a deep pull from the mug, and groaned in pure pleasure as the warmth seeped into him — he hadn't realized how  _ tired  _ he was until the brew started to restore some life his limbs. He just sat there for a time, reveling in the feeling of being warm, dry, and unencumbered by worries.

But it didn't last forever, and eventually, he had to shake himself from the haze of warmth.

' _ Time to work, _ ' he thought and settled in for the long haul.

***

"... _ To combat the Blight, the Astrals blessed two chosen individuals with gifts so that they might lead mankind to survival: the first Oracle, a woman of the Fleuret family, and a protector of the Crystal, a man of the Lucis Caelum family. _

_ It is the descendants of the House of Caelum and Fleurent that eventually managed to halt the Blight though not without cost. The Oracle of the time fell before she could see the end of it. But from the ashes of that tragedy, four new countries rose from the ashes: The Kingdom of Lucis, Tenebrae, Accordo, and Niflheim. _

_ Lucis rose to prominence under the rule of the Founder King, Somnus Lucius Caelum. He claimed the throne after his b—. Under his rule... _ "

"Huh," Prompto blinked at the abrupt break in the text. "What the hell?"

He flipped back through the book to make sure he hadn't skipped anything, but the page still cut off.

"Well, that's not weird as shit," He muttered. Prompto snapped the thick tome closed and tried not to choke on the dust that rose. Taking the book, he walked through the book laden shelves to the help desk. He rang the bell and waited for one of the attendants.

The woman who bustled through the back door was in her late fifties and pleasantly plump. She dressed in a modest blouse and skirt with mousy brown hair just showing signs of silver that had been pulled into a tight braided bun at the back of her head. Wire spectacles hung around her neck on a beaded cord, and warm green eyes blinked up at him owlishly.

"Um, yes, how may I help you?" Her voice was soft and creaked with age, but steady all the same. 

"Um, yeah, hi," He glanced at the ID hanging around her neck, "Debrah, I was looking through this book," he turned it so she could see the cover, "And I found some of the pages were missing or had been altered."

"That's strange," The librarian lifted the spectacles so that they perch on her nose. "What's the title?" She turned to a screen.

"Uh,  _ The History of Eos Through Legends, Myths, Lore, and The Voices of The People. _ "

"Let's see," Her voice trailed off as she clicks rapidly through screens. "And where did you find it?"

"Uh, It was just sitting on one of the tables in the non-fiction section," Prompto explained, rubbing the back of his neck. "I thought it might apply to my research, and no one was around to claim it, so I grabbed it."

"I see," The old woman shot him a reproachful look at him over the rim of her spectacles as she took the book. Prompto winced and let his face morph into something that could be called remorseful.

She gave him a sharp nod. "Good, at least you know it was wrong," then back to her screen, and a furrow appeared in her brow.

"That's strange," she muttered. "This book doesn't belong to the Library."

Prompto leaned forward in surprise, "are you sure?"

She nodded, "it's not in our systems, and we ran an inventory a few days ago..." her voice trailed off. "It's not showing up in any searches I perform either."

She made a thoughtful noise, "One moment, it might be listed in the archive."

"Okay?"

She turned and hurried back through the door, and Prompto was left awkwardly standing at the desk. He entertained the idea of getting back to work while he waited. But before he can commit to the action, the old woman is back at the desk and scribbling out a note. She attached it to a bulletin board, then she turned back to him and placing the book on the counter. "Congratulations, young man, you have found a book that, for all intents and purposes, doesn't exist."

Prompto stood there, stunned.

"What?"

***

The two of them ultimately decided that Propmto could take the book home, seeing as it is both defaced and unknown in origin. He thanked the old librarian and makes his way back to the fortress of texts, records, and miscellaneous documents that he had collected over the last two hours.

It takes him a while to scan through them all, marking down the ones to return to later and then returning them to the shelves. By the end of his impromptu cataloging, his eyes ached, and his legs screamed for him to stop running around the building.

Nonetheless, Prompto finished his task with a single-mindedness born of too many late nights, packed up his laptop, notebooks, new book, and set off into the early evening air.

The rain had stopped for the most part. But clouds still blanketed the city, threatening with their dark gray color and flashes of distant thunder. The evening air was crisp and fresh and filled with sound as the nightlife started to wake up and wander the streets.

Prompto followed a rowdy pack of students as they laughed and shoved each other on their way to the bus stop. Usually, he would take the twenty-minute walk back to his apartment. But he's tired, cold, and wanted to get home and fall into his nice warm bed.

He managed to get off about a block away from his apartment. By then, the sun was setting, stars shone through the cloud cover, and the night buzz of Insomnia had begun in earnest.

Laughter from countless college parties rose in the air. Drunken catcalls following men and women alike as they stumbled from bar to apartment to bar again. And underlying it all is the rhythmic thump of the clubs and bars like it's the heartbeat of the city.

Prompto ignored all of it, weariness cloaking and dulling his senses.

He walked into his empty, cold apartment, dropped his bag at his desk, fell onto his bed, and dreamed of laughter.


	7. Prompto 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bitch fought me every step of the fucking way. I was hoping to post this chapter last week, but at that point, it was about 500 words, and I wanted a bit more than that. So, here ya go.
> 
> Enjoy.

"...As you can see from this map, the expansion during the reign of the Warrior, coupled with the Accordian Trade Agreements of the following years, allowing the reach of the Trader's Consortium to spread to an unprecedented degree..."

The professor's drawling voice washed over the room in a monotone wave. He didn't seem to realize that a quarter of the class was asleep, wishing they were or ignoring him altogether.

Prompto had given up taking notes about a half an hour ago and was instead staring out the window while ignoring the snoring to his right with practiced ease. Honestly, the old man could put Behemoth to sleep with his lectures.

"Argentum! What is the connection between the reign of the Warrior and the Mardian Uprisings!"

Still, he could give a career drill sergeant a run for their money when it came to pure fucking volume.

"There aren't any," Prompto answered absently. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his classmates elbowing each other and passing Gil up and down the aisles.

_ 'So they're betting on this shit now?' _

The old man sputtered, "What about the battle at Seven Hills? Are you saying that the last sixty-four years of academic study and debate are wrong!"

Prompto desperately wanted to walk out of the classroom and forget all about this. He had more important things to do, like actual research that consisted of more than the conservative propaganda that Balind was spewing. But he needed the credit. So instead, he took a deep breath, ordered his thoughts, and forced himself to speak calmly.

"I'm saying that your dates are  _ wrong _ . The partial deification of the Thirteen Nameless Kings makes early records untrustworthy. However, in recent years, scholars have been able to link them to specific events."

Prompto can feel the eyes of the people around him as he speaks, but he doesn't stop. He can't. The words are pouring out of him in a torrent of succinct scorn.

"The Battle of Seven Hills was a turning point because it caused the deaths of King Atticus and the Crown Prince, allowing the Rogue to claim the throne. The Meridian Uprisings happened around two hundred and fifty years later during the reign of the Fierce, not the Warrior or the Rogue, and are notable only for their location, brevity, and stupidity."

Prompto paused to take in a breath and the sight of Balind's growing pallor.

"Stupidity?" He asked, voice faint with something rather like worry. His eyes are darting around the room like a spooked deer and Prompto had to bite back a smirk.

_ 'I've got you now.' _

"Yes, because only idiocy on the grandest scale would look at the obvious romantic relationship between the Fierce and his advisor, Magnus Amans, recorded in contemporary texts and disregard it, and choose to target the women given to them as war-brides instead. Not to mention those same restored texts released three years ago confirmed the King's relationship with his advisor and the queen's with her lady-in-waiting."

Prompto couldn't hold back any longer, a sharp smile — more a baring of teeth than anything pleasant — stretched across his face. "But you already know that, don't you?"

Silence. It was like the whole room was holding its breath. Eyes flickered from Prompto's sharp smile to Balid's faux calm and back again.

Prompto took a deep, quiet breath, and let his words flow into that silence calm and controlled.

"So the real question, Professor, is why are you lying?"

The room erupted into a cacophony of noise as three dozen voices shouted in the wake of his accusation. Prompto leaned back in his chair and watched it unfold.

***

It took Balind around twenty  minutes to pull the class back on track after Prompto's accusation. Even then, he only had enough time to assign their readings before he dismissed them, glaring at Prompto all the way.

It wasn't a novel experience for the young man, so he thought nothing of it. It wasn't like the old goat could do anything to him, seeing as there had been so many witnesses to the exchange that could refute any claim he tried to make.

Still, it would be interesting to see him try, Prompto mused as he meandered through the winding paths of the campus.

He's just passed one of the main parks when a voice calls out to him.

"Oi, Argentum! Wait up!"

Prompto slowed his step and waited for the young woman to catch up.

When she's closer, he nodded a polite greeting.

Ehren was a dark-skinned young woman, with a poof of pastel pink hair that sat at the back of her head and a mischievous grin that had charmed and enraged in equal turn. She was a force of nature given form and one of Prompto's closest friends.

"You all right?" he asked as she gasped for air.

"Fine," She huffed, straightening and adjusting her clothes. Then she gave a decisive nod, and they continued on their way.

"So," she asked. "How long did it take to ruin the prof this time?" Then frowns and adds, "Verbally, I mean, not emotionally."

Prompto let out a short bark of laughter, "How worried should I be that your mind jumps to that?"

"Come on, Prom," Ehren offered with a shark's grin, "You, in a class with someone like Balind?" She shrugged, "The bets practically place themselves."

He had to give her that. He did have a bit of a reputation.

"An hour and a half, give or take," he said, then sighed. "How much did you win?"

Ehren's grin broadened. "Five hundred Gil, plus a favor," she drawled in a self-satisfied tone. "Dear Cassie couldn't help herself, it seems."

"Someday, your habits are going to bite you in the ass," Prompto muttered with a shake of his head.

"And when that day comes, you may greet me with a laugh, and an 'I told you so,'" She nodded solemnly. "But today is not that day. So you can't."

"That's the spirit."

They tried to hold the illusion of sincerity, but it lasted for about three seconds before they break into peals of laughter. 

***

The two of them part ways at the Arts Building, Ehren to her next class, and Prompto to one of the open-air cafes on campus. He got there a few minutes before noon, ordered something to eat, and settled into his usual spot to wait.

He didn't have to wait long.

Max crashed down next to him in a whirlwind of raucous laughter. 

"Fucking hell Quicksilver," he laughed, handsome face flush with mirth. "I thought the old bastard was going to pop a vein when you got going!"

"Hate to disappoint," Prompto shot back without looking up from his book. "But Lana was sitting in the front row, and we all know how she gets."

Max huffed and waved one hand dismissively. "Like that's ever stopped you before."

"Ah," Prompto sighed, "but I am duty-bound to follow a single piece of advice that I received as a boy."

"And what's that?"

Prompto hesitated.

_ 'Not perfect, just normal,' _ reverberated around in his head insistent as it left an acrid taste in his mouth.

"Don't upset a lady if you don't need to," He finished lamely, ignoring the echoes.

If Max noticed his hesitation, he didn't mention it, and Prompto was grateful for the mercy, however unintended. He hadn't told anyone the real breadth of his experiences, but Max knew more than most. It would have been hard to keep it a secret even if he didn't, seeing as the older boy had found Prompto in one of his episodes more than once. Crows, but that had been a nightmare to explain. Nevertheless, he had stood beside Prompto through a lot over the past five years.

A sharp elbow to his ribs interrupted Prompto's train of thought.

"Ow, what was that for?" He demanded, rubbing at his side to soothe it.

"Don't look," Max muttered. "But it looks like a certain brown-eyed beauty is looking your way."

Prompto turned, snorted, "I've got five inches and twenty pounds on her at least, and Hope is still able to bench press me with ease," he retorted as she walked over to their corner table. "She is very much a lesbian, and besides that, I have way too much work to try dating right now."

"What's this about dating?" Hope asked as she plopped down next to Max and slid her bag to the ground with a shrug.

"Max is back on his bullshit and trying to get me to date again."

"Ah, don't bother, he's married to his work," She said, nodding sympathetically. "I think he would live in the Library if he could."

"I know," Max said morosely. "I've tried setting him up with damn near every bachelor and bachelorette on campus. But he always ends up playing unintentional matchmaker or helping them study."

"Has he done that thing where he says he has plans, but you find out it's just a date with another dusty old book?"

"Fuck, I hate that!"

***

By the time he leaves that day, Max and Hope have become fast friends, and Prompto has started to fear for any real possibility of peace in the future.

Not that he had much to start.

***

_ When he woke, there was a weight at his side, and one of his hands felt clammy, like someone's holding it, and hadn't let go for a while. There was humming to his right. He could hear the faintest swish of skirts and the clink of glass on wood. _

_ He tried to open his eyes and sit up, but then there was a hand on his shoulder, and a soft voice telling him to rest. He's too tired to try protesting and falls back into sleep to the sound of a quiet song. _

_ The next time he woke, the weight was gone, and someone was talking to him. _

_ "--I asked them why we couldn't just use magic to heal you the rest of the way, but Auntie said something about how it was too much of a drain on you and that it would be better if the wound heals naturally--"  _

_ The voice was young and soft, and it lulled him back to sleep. _

_ He wakes up to arguing next. He's more alert this time but made no move to inform the other occupants of the room. _

_ "Is there nothing else you can do?" the voice was deep, rough with worry, and mangled the words like they had been chewed and spat out by a throat not meant for them. _

_ "I told you before, Wolf, if I try to use any more magic, it might kill him before it manages to do any good." The second voice was softer, a woman or a young boy, and there was a lilt to their words, an accent he can't quite place. _

_ Woman, he decided, remembering the humming and swish of skirts. _

_ The woman spoke again, "Have you found anything?" _

_ "No," Wolf growled. "I followed his trail as far back as I could, but they covered their tracks too well to be random bandits." _

_ "I was hoping you wouldn't say that," she sighed. "There were shards of glass in his arm and a puncture in his neck near an artery. I didn't think anything of it at first. Then I found traces of Fisstech around the wound and in his bloodstream." _

_ "He was drugged," Wolf said flatly. _

_ "Unless your lark has developed an addiction in the months since I've seen him? Most likely." _

_ Wolf bit out a curse. _

_ A beat or two and then heavy footsteps sounded as the man walked to the side of the bed, and callused figure tips brushed a few strands of hair away from his face. The man pressed a kiss to his temple and murmured what sounds like a prayer under his breath. Then he pulled away, and Lark could hear the creak of a door opening. _

_ "Where do you think you're going?"  _

_ "I'm going to find the bastards who did this a rip their fucking throats out with my teeth." _

_ The door slammed shut. _

_ "I was afraid he'd say that," the woman said with a sigh. Then she walked over to the bed, and he could feel her tugging at the blankets. _

_ "I hope you wake up soon," She muttered. "They're on the edge of breaking. And I don't think the world will survive it if they do." _


End file.
